Hangman Jury
by Scrapped Zero
Summary: Just a little fic my first ever, actually. Mature themes... guess the character heh heh heh


_**A/N: Don't usually write fanfics and this is my first – I just adore Prison Break and this character.. I'm gonna leave it up to you to decide which is it... though an easier guessing-game I could hardly make. Enjoy…**_

_**Rated M for language/themes.**_

"Well now that ain't to say she didn't get what she deserved, ya know?" A subtle pause, followed by a malicious smile. "'Least that's the way it looks from here." The southern accent was marred by the icy fragments that jutted hard through the calm exterior.

He was met by silence.

"_Lyrics_, boy, those were ly-rics." His S's were hissed out like some reptilian with an obnoxiously cocky accent. He took his time when he spoke, as if he had to be sure that every word was efficiently spaced, every syllable caught by whomever he spoke to.

He moved a hand to inspect the ends of broken nails, battered from the bites they received. He stretched out his long limbs, letting the malevolent smile flicker back onto his face for just a moment – his eyes slightly glazed as he took in the sight before him.

He chuckled at the words spoken by the grim man… _barely a man_… that sat across from him, the young psychologist looked as uncomfortable as he did nervous.

"Well that? That's just a matter of _opinion_, boy. No need to get that pretty little head of yours thinkin' too hard." He turned his head to rub an itchy nose against his shoulder before sniffing rather loudly. His hands couldn't help him now; they were attached, not only together, but also to the sterile, metal table at which he sat. He payed no mind to it, though, this was just another-day-in-the-life, as far as he was concerned. Being chained had become a custom, one he had almost forced himself into enjoying. At least that's what he told himself, besides – for a man such as this – prison _did_ have it's kicks.

"Aerosmith." He replied to the query. "What you don't listen to rock 'n' roll, _Mista P.H.D_?" The title was emitted with such malice that the young psychologist shifted cautiously in his seat, his discomfort caused by more than just the cheap seat covering, now.

More words from the shrink and a slow, dark grin spread across the man's face.

"Well now, I'm as sure as sure that anyone woulda taken great joy in'a slittin' that little whore's throat. But, uh, I wasn't the one t'have done it, ya see? A'course I wouldn't a made it that easy on 'er. _I_ woulda taken my time with that little _darlin'_ – given 'er what she _really_ deserved." A cool chuckle left a pair of smirking lips as the man stretched his legs out under the table.

As the young man spoke, the smirk slowly disappeared from the convict's lips and he sat up straight, something rarely done. The disposition had changed from that of a lazing lion to a full predator on alert, a cool hunter suddenly shifting into pursuit-mode. His eyes bored into the dark set of the psychologist's for a moment of silence that echoed around the autocratically sterile and through the young man's ears as he shifted, once more, uncomfortably.

"Honestly, boy, I don't think you wanna _know_ what _I_ woulda done to 'er. Mmhmm I _certainly_ woulda had some _fun_ with that pretty little piece a' ass." He licked his lips, a slow motion, and propped his elbows up onto the table, leaning forward across the small, metal expanse and lowering his voice as if divulging a secret to an old pal.

"But ta be honest, I think you already knew that, didn'ya, _pretty-boy_?" Another cold chuckle as he sat back in his seat once more, crossing his legs and reclining as if he was seated upon something more comfortable than a metal slab. He flashed the young man a toothy, animalistic grin as he spoke his next sentence. "You know what I'm in here for, don'tcha? Smart little thing like you woulda done his homework, like a _good_ boy, hmm?"

The shrink spoke in a grim voice and the convict could do nothing more but let out another one of his infuriating chuckles.

"Well _damn_, boy. That's _six_ counts a kindappin', rape an' _first degree _murder," from the way he spoke the words 'first degree' one would have assumed he was talking about a fine hotel, had they just joined the conversation, "an' what about them other accounts a' first degree, hmmm? Oh tha's right – I was _acquitted_," he took his time in pronouncing each syllable of the word with a small grin tugging at the corners of his thin lips, "of them last two. Seems as though that judge thought I was just too damn _cute_ to keep in prison for too long… A little like you, eh boy?" The irony of his words showed easily in his voice, but not his face – his sentence was life without parole – so either way, his prison stay would be… extensive, to say the least.

The psych began to stand, tucking away his notepad and paper, his movements sharp and halting. He murmured something as he went, checking his police attire over as he spoke.

"Leavin' me already, hmm? And here I was a thinkin' we were just getting to know each other." Another pause, perhaps for emphasis. "Now why _would_ that be? Our conversation wasn't making you _uncomfortable _was it?" Yet again he pronounced each syllable of the word, slowly and surely – the wicked grin ceasing to remove itself from his lips.

The suited man turned at the door, dark eyes narrowed as he spoke his last sentence.

"Should I? Well really now - that ain't too nice, 'cause I was really thinkin' we were getting' to become _friends_, boy. Besides, seems as though a fair few judges didn't agree with that one – they thought I should be kept alive, y'see?"

The C.O strode into the room with purpose, grabbing the convict and tugging him so roughly to his feet that he was temporarily dragged off of the ground. He ignored the "watch the head, Boss" from the convict as he always did. The con was hauled out the door, the same way in which the shrink had previously gone.

He was somewhat dragged, partly edged down the corridor – the psychologist was up ahead, waiting at the section where prison met "interrogation rooms". He murmured only two words as the convict was dragged past, through the eerily sterile area. The southerner just flashed a demonic grin back in his direction then began to talk quietly.

It took a long moment for the psychologist to realise that the convict was not exactly _talking_, as the guards dragged him down past a row of empty holding cells. His voice, quiet yet audible filled the quiet hallway with song.

"_I swear I didn't know that 45 was loaded,_

_In fact my memory ain't to clear, _

_That's not to say she didn't get what she deserved well,_

_Least that's the way it looks from here."_

The words echoed through the rows of cells until they faded, along with the convict's shadow, around the corner.

**_A/N II: This is what you get with me in a bad mood, Prison Break about to start and listening to my favourite Aerosmith song one-too-many times. Short but fun to write. Heh – want to know what the psychologist was saying? I didn't write his dialogue – I just wanted to focus more on T-Bag… of course you all would know it was him by now ;)He hh_**


End file.
